Little household cares. What blessed though humble ministers to sorrow they are—gently drawing away the mourner from the contemplation of her grief, and compelling attention to themselves. So they give occupation, and induce forgetfulness—aiding in their humble way the great comforters, religion and time. An hour spent in bitter tears and sobs, and then the little domestic duties came hovering about her like little children, claiming her care. There was a large supper to be prepared, and bed-chambers to be got ready for friends who had come from the remoter parts of the county, and who would therefore remain until the next morning. And so Catherine arose and refreshed herself with cold water and a change of dress, and went below stairs to superintend the operations of her cook and house-maids. When everything was in readiness, she went into the drawing-room, where she received the returning visitors with a pensive, gentle dignity that won all their hearts, proud conservators of rank as they were. And that evening, young girl and new bride as she was, she presided at the head of the long table, filled with the county aristocrats, with all the ease and grace of a lady “to the manner born.” Preoccupied by one earnest thought and purpose, she never once remembered herself as a new comer into their ranks, or troubled herself with the question of what might be their opinion of her. For the rest, her courtesy was graceful and dignified, because it was natural, and not assumed—the effect of benevolence and kindly social feeling, and not of pride, vanity, or ostentation. The next morning, after breakfast, the guests departed. And many and cordial were the invitations to their houses extended to Catherine by all—even the haughtiest defenders of the sacredness of caste. Catherine received all these civilities with a gracious nobleness, that sat naturally and well upon her. And all this—the very evident esteem and respect of her neighbors, and the admirable manner in which Catherine received them, would have highly gratified the pride of Major Clifton, could anything except her exculpation from suspicion have pleased him. As it was, he witnessed it all with a moody brow, and sneering lip, and murmured to himself— “Better and better, ‘Maria Teresa.’ You should have seen more of the world, before you threw your diplomatic talents away upon me, and my country neighbors.” Well, at length they were all, to the very last guest, gone, and Major Clifton and Catherine were left alone, left standing together in the hall, whence they had seen the departures. Catherine, hesitating between her fear of intruding upon his notice, and her dislike to leave him abruptly and rudely, stood—no longer self-possessed and noble—but with her eyes fixed upon the ground, and with the color deepening in her cheek, in embarrassed silence, wishing that he might say something to her, something to explain the nature of that dark cloud that had arisen so strangely between them.